Mr. Bucket and his fat forefinger are much in consultation togetherunder existing circumstances. When Mr. Bucket has a matter of thispressing interest under his consideration, the fat forefinger seemsto rise, to the dignity of a familiar demon. He puts it to hisears, and it whispers information; he puts it to his lips, and itenjoins him to secrecy; he rubs it over his nose, and it sharpenshis scent; he shakes it before a guilty man, and it charms him tohis destruction. The Augurs of the Detective Temple invariablypredict that when Mr. Bucket and that finger are in muchconference, a terrible avenger will be heard of before long.
Otherwise mildly studious in his observation of human nature, onthe whole a benignant philosopher not disposed to be severe uponthe follies of mankind, Mr. Bucket pervades a vast number of housesand strolls about an infinity of streets, to outward appearancerather languishing for want of an object. He is in the friendliestcondition towards his species and will drink with most of them. Heis free with his money, affable in his manners, innocent in hisconversation--but through the placid stream of his life thereglides an under-current of forefinger.
Time and place cannot bind Mr. Bucket. Like man in the abstract,he is here to-day and gone to-morrow--but, very unlike man indeed,he is here again the next day. This evening he will be casuallylooking into the iron extinguishers at the door of Sir LeicesterDedlock's house in town; and to-morrow morning he will be walkingon the leads at Chesney Wold, where erst the old man walked whoseghost is propitiated with a hundred guineas. Drawers, desks,pockets, all things belonging to him, Mr. Bucket examines. A fewhours afterwards, he and the Roman will be alone together comparingforefingers.
It is likely that these occupations are irreconcilable with homeenjoyment, but it is certain that Mr. Bucket at present does not gohome. Though in general he highly appreciates the society of Mrs.
Bucket--a lady of a natural detective genius, which if it had beenimproved by professional exercise, might have done great things,but which has paused at the level of a clever amateur--he holdshimself aloof from that dear solace. Mrs. Bucket is dependent ontheir lodger (fortunately an amiable lady in whom she takes aninterest) for companionship and conversation.
A great crowd assembles in Lincoln's Inn Fields on the day of thefuneral. Sir Leicester Dedlock attends the ceremony in person;strictly speaking, there are only three other human followers, thatis to say, Lord Doodle, William Buffy, and the debilitated cousin(thrown in as a make-weight), but the amount of inconsolablecarriages is immense. The peerage contributes more four-wheeledaffliction than has ever been seen in that neighbourhood. Such isthe assemblage of armorial bearings on coach panels that theHerald's College might be supposed to have lost its father andmother at a blow. The Duke of Foodle sends a splendid pile of dustand ashes, with silver wheel-boxes, patent axles, all the lastimprovements, and three bereaved worms, six feet high, holding onbehind, in a bunch of woe. All the state coachmen in London seemplunged into mourning; and if that dead old man of the rusty garbbe not beyond a taste in horseflesh (which appears impossible), itmust be highly gratified this day.
Quiet among the undertakers and the equipages and the calves of somany legs all steeped in grief, Mr. Bucket sits concealed in one ofthe inconsolable carriages and at his ease surveys the crowdthrough the lattice blinds. He has a keen eye for a crowd--as forwhat not?--and looking here and there, now from this side of thecarriage, now from the other, now up at the house windows, nowalong the people's heads, nothing escapes him.
"And there you are, my partner, eh?" says Mr. Bucket to himself,apostrophizing Mrs. Bucket, stationed, by his favour, on the stepsof the deceased's house. "And so you are. And so you are! Andvery well indeed you are looking, Mrs. Bucket!"The procession has not started yet, but is waiting for the cause ofits assemblage to be brought out. Mr. Bucket, in the foremostemblazoned carriage, uses his two fat forefingers to hold thelattice a hair's breadth open while he looks.
And it says a great deal for his attachment, as a husband, that heis still occupied with Mrs. B. "There you are, my partner, eh?" hemurmuringly repeats. "And our lodger with you. I'm taking noticeof you, Mrs. Bucket; I hope you're all right in your health, mydear!"Not another word does Mr. Bucket say, but sits with most attentiveeyes until the sacked depository of noble secrets is brought down--Where are all those secrets now? Does he keep them yet? Did theyfly with him on that sudden journey?--and until the processionmoves, and Mr. Bucket's view is changed. After which he composeshimself for an easy ride and takes note of the fittings of thecarriage in case he should ever find such knowledge useful.
Contrast enough between Mr. Tulkinghorn shut up in his darkcarriage and Mr. Bucket shut up in HIS. Between the immeasurabletrack of space beyond the little wound that has thrown the one intothe fixed sleep which jolts so heavily over the stones of thestreets, and the narrow track of blood which keeps the other in thewatchful state expressed in every hair of his head! But it is allone to both; neither is troubled about that.
Mr. Bucket sits out the procession in his own easy manner andglides from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled withhimself arrives. He makes for Sir Leicester Dedlock's, which is atpresent a sort of home to him, where he comes and goes as he likesat all hours', where he is always welcome and made much of, wherehe knows the whole establishment, and walks in an atmosphere ofmysterious greatness.
No knocking or ringing for Mr. Bucket. He has caused himself to beprovided with a key and can pass in at his pleasure. As he iscrossing the hall, Mercury informs him, "Here's another letter foryou, Mr. Bucket, come by post," and gives it him.
"Another one, eh?" says Mr. Bucket.
If Mercury should chance to be possessed by any lingering curiosityas to Mr. Bucket's letters, that wary person is not the man togratify it. Mr. Bucket looks at him as if his face were a vista ofsome miles in length and he were leisurely contemplating the same.
"Do you happen to carry a box?" says Mr. Bucket.
Unfortunately Mercury is no snuff-taker.
"Could you fetch me a pinch from anywheres?" says Mr. Bucket.
"Thankee. It don't matter what it is; I'm not particular as to thekind. Thankee!"Having leisurely helped himself from a canister borrowed fromsomebody downstairs for the purpose, and having made a considerableshow of tasting it, first with one side of his nose and then withthe other, Mr. Bucket, with much deliberation, pronounces it of theright sort and goes on, letter in hand.
Now although Mr. Bucket walks upstairs to the little library withinthe larger one with the face of a man who receives some scores ofletters every day, it happens that much correspondence is notincidental to his life. He is no great scribe, rather handling hispen like the pocket-staff he carries about with him alwaysconvenient to his grasp, and discourages correspondence withhimself in others as being too artless and direct a way of doingdelicate business. Further, he often sees damaging lettersproduced in evidence and has occasion to reflect that it was agreen thing to write them. For these reasons he has very little todo with letters, either as sender or receiver. And yet he hasreceived a round half-dozen within the last twenty-four hours.
"And this," says Mr. Bucket, spreading it out on the table, "is inthe same hand, and consists of the same two words."What two words?
He turns the key in the door, ungirdles his black pocket-book (bookof fate to many), lays another letter by it, and reads, boldlywritten in each, "Lady Dedlock.""Yes, yes," says Mr. Bucket. "But I could have made the moneywithout this anonymous information."Having put the letters in his book of fate and girdled it up again,he unlocks the door just in time to admit his dinner, which isbrought upon a goodly tray with a decanter of sherry. Mr. Bucketfrequently observes, in friendly circles where there is norestraint, that he likes a toothful of your fine old brown EastInder sherry better than anything you can offer him. Consequentlyhe fills and empties his glass with a smack of his lips and isproceeding with his refreshment when an idea enters his mind.
Mr. Bucket softly opens the door of communication between that roomand the next and looks in. The library is deserted, and the fireis sinking low. Mr. Bucket's eye, after taking a pigeon-flightround the room, alights upon a table where letters are usually putas they arrive. Several letters for Sir Leicester are upon it.
Mr. Bucket draws near and examines the directions. "No," he says,"there's none in that hand. It's only me as is written to. I canbreak it to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to-morrow."With that he returns to finish his dinner with a good appetite, andafter a light nap, is summoned into the drawing-room. SirLeicester has received him there these several evenings past toknow whether he has anything to report. The debilitated cousin(much exhausted by the funeral) and Volumnia are in attendance.
Mr. Bucket makes three distinctly different bows to these threepeople. A bow of homage to Sir Leicester, a bow of gallantry toVolumnia, and a bow of recognition to the debilitated Cousin, towhom it airily says, "You are a swell about town, and you know me,and I know you." Having distributed these little specimens of histact, Mr. Bucket rubs his hands.
"Have you anything new to communicate, officer?" inquires SirLeicester. "Do you wish to hold any conversation with me inprivate?""Why--not tonight, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.""Because my time," pursues Sir Leicester, "is wholly at yourdisposal with a view to the vindication of the outraged majesty ofthe law."Mr. Bucket coughs and glances at Volumnia, rouged and necklaced, asthough he would respectfully observe, "I do assure you, you're apretty creetur. I've seen hundreds worse looking at your time oflife, I have indeed."The fair Volumnia, not quite unconscious perhaps of the humanizinginfluence of her charms, pauses in the writing of cocked-hat notesand meditatively adjusts the pearl necklace. Mr. Bucket pricesthat decoration in his mind and thinks it as likely as not thatVolumnia is writing poetry.
"If I have not," pursues Sir Leicester, "in the most emphaticmanner, adjured you, officer, to exercise your utmost skill in thisatrocious case, I particularly desire to take the presentopportunity of rectifying any omission I may have made. Let noexpense be a consideration. I am prepared to defray all charges.
You can incur none in pursuit of the object you have undertakenthat I shall hesitate for a moment to bear."Mr. Bucket made Sir Leicester's bow again as a response to thisliberality.
"My mind," Sir Leicester adds with a generous warmth, "has not, asmay be easily supposed, recovered its tone since the latediabolical occurrence. It is not likely ever to recover its tone.
But it is full of indignation to-night after undergoing the ordealof consigning to the tomb the remains of a faithful, a zealous, adevoted adherent."Sir Leicester's voice trembles and his grey hair stirs upon hishead. Tears are in his eyes; the best part of his nature isaroused.
"I declare," he says, "I solemnly declare that until this crime isdiscovered and, in the course of justice, punished, I almost feelas if there were a stain upon my name. A gentleman who has devoteda large portion of his life to me, a gentleman who has devoted thelast day of his life to me, a gentleman who has constantly sat atmy table and slept under my roof, goes from my house to his own,and is struck down within an hour of his leaving my house. Icannot say but that he may have been followed from my house,watched at my house, even first marked because of his associationwith my house--which may have suggested his possessing greaterwealth and being altogether of greater importance than his ownretiring demeanour would have indicated. If I cannot with my meansand influence and my position bring all the perpetrators of such acrime to light, I fail in the assertion of my respect for thatgentleman's memory and of my fidelity towards one who was everfaithful to me."While he makes this protestation with great emotion andearnestness, looking round the room as if he were addressing anassembly, Mr. Bucket glances at him with an observant gravity inwhich there might be, but for the audacity of the thought, a touchof compassion.
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